Bought my tickets. I’m a going home for the almost the whole month of August. I can’t wait. It’s been about 1-½ years since I’ve been home and it’s started to take its toll on my love for Germany and its conveniences. I mean, this is truly the land of convenience right? Oh and customer service.
This will be the first time Markus and I have been separated for more than two days since I moved here. I’ll miss him horribly. I’ll be very, very busy preparing my little sis for college, eating at all my favorite restaurants, shoe shopping, and seeing old friends. It’s really a bitch, but hey, someone has to do it, right?
What will Markus do while I’m away? Other than the vast amounts of cocaine and hookers, he’ll watch all the zombie movies I never let him watch while I’m in the house. All the scary movies that I can only watch half of and fast forward to see if I can see the rest, decide I can’t, leaving him hanging because he has no problem with supernatural scary. He’ll have a prog rock night with his buddies and play music loud. And… he’ll scoop the poop.
See, on the household chore list, I’m the pooper-scooper. Markus may be German, but he’s not a scat fetishist. Markus may love the cats, call one “his”, smuggly cuddle Kiska, but he never scoops the poop. He tried once. The gagging noises were obviously, pathetically contrived, but he absolutely refused to do it again. I mean, REFUSED. Just no, not gonna happen refused. Not even a night with Kylie would convince him to scoop. And it’s really not that bad. He’s just a baby about it. I blame his German mother for never forcing him to do icky chores. Now its neigh on impossible to force him to do anything that might remotely make him gag.
Well, since I’m going to be gone for close to a month, Markus will have to scoop the poop or the house will smell to high hell. Cleo pees elsewhere when her box is not clean. Like on clothing and valuable rugs and gym shoes. He’ll have to clean the cathouse after Cleo decides the litter level is too low or too high and pees just outside the box coating the bottom of the cathouse in pungent piss. He’ll have to empty the litter locker. He’s in charge of the whole cat defecation process.
(Hear evil maniacal laughter.)
So, while I’m snacking on fresh cracked crab at the Wharf, he’ll be scooping poop. When I’m sniffing the erotic scent of gunpowder residue left on my fingers after a morning of shooting guns too big and too powerful to be legal, he’ll be poop scooping. When I’m shopping in Union square, driving us towards bankruptcy, where will Markus be? Scooping the poop. When I’m getting my legs waxed, my toes polished and my hair styled, Markus will be scooping the poop. When I’m cavorting on the beach with men who are not my husband, what will my husband be doing? Yep, he’ll be on his knees, praying that Cleo does not get pissy again while I’m gone.
I hear a rap hook: scoop that poop, scoop that poop, scoop that poop, be-yotch. Ye-eahhh
And they say there’s no justice in this world.